Letting Go
by greywolfheir
Summary: John deals with Sherlock's death by creating an imaginary Sherlock.


_Hey there readers! Sorry for may lack of fics. I've been caught up in school stuff (but now it's summer woo!). Anyway, I decided I needed to come up with a fic, and this popped into my head. Yes, yes, practically everyone has done a "John sees Sherlock's ghost" fic, but I might as well add one more to the masses. I wrote this in one night, so PLEASE tell me if something is wrong with it or is confusing! And hey, if you like it, you can tell me that too. _

_Anyway, I'm out. Enjoy!_

* * *

"John."

"Go away Sherlock, you're not real."

A drowsy John Watson rolls over on his bed, not bothering to open his eyes and see the familiar frame standing above him. It has been two and a half years since John had seen his best friend fall from the roof, but the visions keep coming, even when John willed them away.

"Of course I'm real, John. To you, at least. And everyone else, well, they're boring anyway."

John can't help but smile. His imagination is just too good. "Could you at least let me sleep every once in a while?"

"Of course."

John feels the presence leave the same way he would feel a fog evaporate off of his skin. He falls into a dreamless sleep, the first in ages.

* * *

It had started happening after the funeral. In fact, John remembers the first time exactly. Lestrade had come in asking if John would like to help them on a case. John knowing he wouldn't be able to help the police without Sherlock, declined. When Lestrade had left, John turned around to see his friend standing there, arms crossed, head tilted.

"Now, John, you know I've taught you better than that."

"Sherlock." John had barely gotten the word out.

The figure shook his head. "No, it's not really me. You've created a new me in your head. Though I believe you'll find that I'm _exactly_ as you remembered."

John frowned. Sherlock was the same, alright. "But, why would I have the imaginary you tell me that you're fake?"

"Isn't it obvious, John? I'm a logical person—why would I tell you illogical things?"

"This situation is illogical!" John knew he was acting like a five-year-old. Albeit an insane five-year-old.

"No, John, this is normal. You've suffered a great loss, and your incapability to endure it has created me."

John rolled his eyes. Even a fake Sherlock was as insufferable as ever. "Fine, you're here, but this doesn't mean that I'm going on that case. I was never near your level."

"Yes, but you are above _their_ level."

"It's not happening."

"Fine."

And with that, the figure had disappeared.

* * *

"Your condition is getting worse."

John jumps, nearly spilling his tea.

"It's been three years, and I'm still here—becoming an even greater presence, actually."

John grumbles and sips the tea.

"You should do as your therapist says, or soon you'll have your own imaginary world—you'll be living inside yourself."

John still doesn't answer, instead picking up a newspaper.

"Didn't you hear me John you need—"

"Of course I heard you!" John yells. "Maybe I just don't want to lose you. Did you ever think of that? I want my friend—imaginary or not."

"It's not healthy," Sherlock murmurs as John takes another sip of tea.

"Well, I don't really care, do I?"

When John looks up again, Sherlock has vanished.

* * *

John went to the crime scene a soon after Lestrade had come knocking, with the excuse of boredom. He really just wanted to see if Sherlock would show up again.

Lestrade's smile was fake—John could see it in his eyes. He felt sorry for John, but John didn't need his sorrow. John looks away and begins to examine the body. It's a woman—a cyclist, Lestrade had said. She had ridden in front of a bus. The police claimed that she had been drugged. John tried—he really did—but he had come up with absolutely nothing.

He was just about to tell this to Lestrade, but spotted his dead friend behind the Detective Inspector.

"You see nothing because there is nothing," Sherlock said. "The woman had simply been distracted. She didn't see the bus. It was nothing more than an accident."

John had given the body another glance. There really was nothing. He relayed the information back to Lestrade, who immediately closed the case.

When Lestrade had turned away, John had given Sherlock a smile. He could see a pattern forming.

* * *

"John, don't you think that this is your subconscious trying to tell you something?"

John looks up at his therapist. "Tell me what?"

"You know. Even your own imagination is telling you that something is wrong. Let me help you."

"I don't need to be helped. I have my friend. I solve crimes better than I could before. What more could I ask for?"

"John, you need to let him go. You don't know how this will end."

"And I suppose you do?"

"I've seen cases like this before, John. It doesn't end well. I think we both know that's why you started coming here."

John lets out a breath and stands up. "I should never have told you about it."

"John, wait—"

"You've been really helpful, but I think it's time I stopped coming."

"John—"

The door slams and John storms down the hall, Sherlock appearing beside him.

"You're making the wrong decision."

"Piss off."

* * *

Mrs. Hudson was the first to find out, naturally. John brought home clues and talked to Sherlock, asked him questions. It wasn't long before Mrs. Hudson walked in during one of their discussions.

"John, dearie, who are you talking to?"

John felt he couldn't lie. "Sherlock."

"Sher—Sherlock?"

"Yes, I've been seeing him lately. He helps me with cases. He's standing right next to you."

Mrs. Hudson looked around and saw nothing. "Are you alright? I know Sherlock's death was a shock to you."

"It's fine, Mrs. Hudson, I promise."

It was even longer before anyone else found out. Donovan, of all people, who overheard John's whispers to Sherlock.

"Who're you talking to?' She had demanded rudely.

"No one," John said. Sally wasn't the kind of person he could tell these things to.

"Oh really? Do you just fancy a conversation with yourself then. Something's messed up in your head, Watson. Don't think I haven't noticed that you look over our shoulders as if there's someone there."

"It's _nothing_, Sergeant Donovan." John insisted.

"It's him, isn't it? The freak. You miss him so much, you've gone and created him in your head. That it?"

John's lack of a response was answer enough.

"Doesn't matter, though, does it? After all, you solve the case the way he did, so Lestrade ain't going to say nothing. Just give me fair warning before he tells you to kill us all, alright?"

John walked away then.

* * *

"You really shouldn't have walked out like that, John."

"And why not, Sherlock? "

"I've told you. I need to go away before this gets any worse."

"Then go away! I'm not stopping you. In fact, I've been trying to get rid of you all day!"

"No you haven't. Not really. You've never moved on. You're holding on to that last bit of me, and you refuse to let go, even if you're denying it."

"I can't let go, Sherlock, because you're not dead. I know you aren't." John blinks away a mist that had begun to blur his vision.

"I _am_, John. You saw me fall. You saw my body. You saw the blood."

"You're bloody Sherlock Holmes! Of course you found a way out!"

"You should visit my grave again. Do something—anything—just let go of me. I'm gone, John. Accept it."

"I can't lose you again."

* * *

It was only recently that John had started seeing his therapist again. That was when he admitted that he'd had a problem. It was at an office party that had already begun to die down. John had been ignoring as best he could Sherlock's snide comments about the failures of human society. He was actually having fun.

Soon, the only people who were left were Lestrade, Donovan, and Anderson. And, of course, Sherlock. John was offering to help clean up, and Sherlock followed him around. John was just about to pick up a piece of trash off the table when Sherlock reached in front of it. John's hand bumped against Sherlock's. He felt the contact, and his eyes widened.

Dropping the trash bag in his hand, John reached out and pressed a hand to Sherlock's chest. He felt the suit, the heat—he felt everything. John laughed and grabbed Sherlock's shoulders. "You're real!"

Lestrade, aware of John's condition, looked up, and saw his colleague holding on to thin air looking positively delighted. "Erm, John, is everything alright?"

"It's more than alright, Lestrade. Look! I can feel him. That must mean you can see him, right?"

Lestrade sighed. It was sad how bad things had gotten.

Anderson, unaware of John's condition, looked across the room in complete bewilderment. "What's he doing?"

"_He_ thinks he can see the freak. Actually, now he can feel him. The man's completely mental," Donovan answered.

"Poor sod."

John was unaware of the conversation around him. Instead he asked again. "Do you see him, Lestrade?"

"No, John, I'm sorry. He's still in your head."

"But you _must_ see him. I can _feel_ him." John reached out and grabbed Lestrade's hand and put it to Sherlock's chest. But it had just gone straight through.

"I'm still in your head, John," Sherlock explained.

"Damn you!" John shouted to Sherlock, still holding Lestrade's wrist. The detective Inspector wrenched it out of Watson's grasp.

"Look, this has gone too far. I think you need to see a therapist."

"No, I'm fine, really—"

"You're seeing a therapist or I throw you in a mental hospital, you got it? Now go home and get some rest."

John gave in and trudged home. A few days later, he set up an appointment with his therapist.

* * *

John decides to take a walk. He knows he is heading towards Sherlock's grave, but he's simply doing so out of habit. He's not about to let go. Sherlock doesn't appear the entire walk. When John reaches the grave, he stands there silently, unsure of what he should do.

"John?"

John smiles. He had been wondering when Sherlock would show up again.

"I thought you'd left me for good."

"You're not surprised to see me?"'

John turns around. There's something different about Sherlock this time. He was wearing different clothes, for one. "Of course I'm not surprised to see you. I've been seeing you for more than two years."

"Oh John," Sherlock sighs. "What have I done?"

"What are you talking about? Shouldn't you be blaming me for 'not letting go'? This is my doing."

"Oh, my dear Watson. I had no idea my death would affect you so." Clearing his throat, Sherlock speaks louder. "I am real, John. I never really died."

"No," John laughs. "You're only repeating what I've said ten times over."

"Because it is true, John. I'm so sorry to have put you through this."

"You're not real!" John shouts. "What happened to you wanting to leave, anyway?"

"John, listen to me! I am not from your imagination." Sherlock's eyes land on the flowers set by his headstone. He walks over and picks them up.

John's throat tightens and his eyes begin to sting. "How—how are you doing that?"

"Because I am real, John. I never died."

Tears fall freely now, as the truth hit John head-on. He steps forward and embraces the man he believed to be dead, squeezing tightly to make absolutely sure.

Over Sherlock's shoulder, a different, ghostly Sherlock slowly fades to nothing, raising a hand in a final farewell


End file.
